Page 85 of 10 Days to Surrender

I shift again, trying to find a position that doesn’t make my back scream or put too much pressure on my belly. But I’m afraid we’re rapidly approaching the stage of pregnancy wherecomfortis nothing but a pretty lie.

At last week’s checkup, the doctor’s eyes bulged when she saw how big I’d gotten. That’s usually not the kind of thing a woman wants to see, but I’m beyond caring. Even growing life inside of you loses its allure after a while, it turns out. With five weeks leftuntil these little gremlins vacate the premises, it’s safe to say I’m ready for the next adventure.

I roll over again, nestle in, and sigh. “This is it,” I mumble to myself. “This is the one. The world’s most comfortable, undeniably perfect sleeping position. No one has ever been so cozy or so—Ow,goddammit, my back.”

Without a word, Sasha reaches over from his lounger and hands me one of his pillows. I hesitate for a moment before accepting it, tucking it behind my lower back. The relief is immediate.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

He grunts in response, but I catch his eyes lingering on my stomach. He’s been doing a lot of that lately. Well, more than before, which was already a lot. Now, it’s like he can’t bear to look at anything else.

Like always, I wonder what he’s thinking. He’s been so good about being open with me since I heard him talking to Zoya. It still all takes place under cover of darkness, but now, between rounds of making my eyes roll back in my head, we whisper back and forth to each other. It’s easier when we can’t see. Safer that way.

“Hey, Jas,” I call out. “Remember when you used to take me out on the roof and make up constellations?”

Jasmine giggles. “Duh. Do youremember when Dad caught us out there? I thought he was gonna lose his freaking mind.”

I shudder at the memory. It was funny then, back when we didn’t know as much, although a little bit less so now. “He had the shotgun in his hand and everything.”

“You peed your pants when the flashlight hit us.”

“Because you said he fed trespassers to the geese in the park!”

Mama laughs, too. “You girls were always finding your way onto that roof,” she chimes in. “Just like when you were tiny and would climb out of your cribs. Jasmine, you used to help Ariel escape even before she could walk.”

“That’s because she’d cry if I didn’t,” Jasmine defends. “Cry Baby Ari.”

“You were both rather… vocal,” says Mama. “You both came out screaming. Jasmine was loud enough to crack the nursery window. When Ariel was born, I thought I had a silent one—thenboom, lungs like a foghorn.”

Jasmine lobs a pistachio shell at her. “You’re making that up.”

“Am not! Ask Kosti. He was there.”

Kosti guffaws as he takes another of Zoya’s pawns. “I thought I had banshees for nieces, both times. Who knew I’d be so right?”

Jasmine and I both throw things at him. He ducks, laughing.

The laughter fades as everyone settles back into their chairs. I yawn and Sasha reaches out to stroke the hair back from my face. I look over at him.

“What are you thinking about?” I whisper.

He’s quiet for so long I think he might not answer. Then: “Which constellations I want to teach our children.”

Our children.We don’t usually say it quite like that. More often than not, it’s “the babies” or “the twins.”

“Yeah? Which ones?”

“The North Star, of course. That way, they can always find their way home.”

I reach out to lace my fingers through his. That’s too tender—I should counterbalance it with something else. I should say something cutting. Make a joke. Remind us both of the lines we’ve drawn.

Instead, I find myself lifting the edge of the blanket in silent invitation. “Keep me warm?”

He hesitates, and for a moment, I think he’ll refuse. Then he moves, careful and quiet, until we’re sharing not just the blanket or the lounger, but the narrow space between waking and dreaming.

When I risk a glance up, he’s staring at where his fingers linger against my skin. There’s no smirk, no leer—just raw, unguarded want that mirrors the ache low in my belly.

The others snore on, oblivious. Jasmine mutters something about tax brackets in her sleep. A bird trills its first tentative song. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. Anything to anchor me against the dangerous truth taking root—that I want his hands everywhere now, but not for the reasons we agreed upon.

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